Blame It On the Rain
by Wolf of the Midnight Sun
Summary: Chris Irvine lives a life eternally in darkness, denied everything he loves. When the a 20 man Battle Royal goes amiss, the darkness in which he is attached threatens to overcome and endanger everything he has- and everything he wishes he did.
1. Prologue

Hi. This is my new story, I guess. Confusing? Yes. Clarified later? Yes.

Blame It On the Rain

Prologue

What a splitting day.

Had he wanted the Battle Royal? No. Had he wanted the night off? Yes, and he believed he deserved it. The cage match had its repercussions, and they lasted days. A week ago he had defeated Christian inside a steel cage, and a week ago he had injured himself, both in body and spirit. Tired and weary, he had requested the day off. He had taken the house shows off, but there was still the fact that televised shows were more stressful than most house shows. He had requested, and his request had been denied. Astoundingly denied, in fact.

And her.

Her name was venom. It hissed and crackled and snapped in the air, a snake that had been dormant for a long while and then resurfaced. Couldn't he just forget her, forget the way her hair hung long and silky from her head, the way her eyes sparkled in delight, or melted in anger, forget the way that she moved when she was happy, and sulked when she was sad?

Couldn't he just forget her?

It had been so long ago. And she was gone forever, had to be. No more playful advances, no more. There couldn't be, couldn't be at all. There could be nothing threatening, didn't he know it? The top in the in the company would seek him out, and having the prize threaten and acknowledge him was too tiring. Too tiring for any real thought, didn't he know? He had enough to deal with, had enough to stress with.

He thought that Trish would distract him. The blonde giggly girl had, for awhile, for a few blissful days. Days full of a cuddling little body, days full of blonde with blonde, having been stared at in the street. He thought it would distract him, take his mind from what he couldn't have. Had it? For a few happy hours, he had. He could lie in bed with another woman and not dream and wish for another, and he could sit during hours alone and not have his mind tormented by thoughts of what could have been. For a few days, the hair and sparkling blue eyes had captivated him, had held him and comforted him.

After they had been stolen away, there was nothing to distract him from the ache inside that never filled. Nothing to take away the pain. He could sleep, take the pills that the doctor prescribed, and he would still never be filled. He doubted that he ever would be filled, doubted it with such certainty that there were days in which the knife glistened on the counter and the pill bottles gleamed from the shelf. He would look at them, look at both of them, consider the dosage of the pills, consider how much force into the knife would cut through the tendons and muscle, and then the phone would ring, or he would remember something he hadn't done. Remembering thing not done usually sent his mind away from the glistening metal and the instructions on the bottles.

Nothing took away the pain, not anymore. Nothing retained his attention. Nothing took it away and he doubted anything ever would. The doctor told him that he was losing weight, losing weight and sleeping increasingly little. The doctor had recommended a psychiatrist, a highly prestigious and thousands of dollars an hour psychiatrist. He had taken the suggestion and not tuned an ear to anything else his doctor said. He didn't need a psychiatrist to tell him what was wrong with him. He knew well what was wrong with him and he didn't need any reminding.

The Battle Royal was just a meaningless distraction, a meaningless distraction that lasted for a few hours, the pain in his body just enough to dull the pain in his mind, and then he returned to the darkness that seemed eternally attached to his life. The pills returned to his mind, and the steel with the black handle, lying haphazardly within his reach. Sometimes he put it away, mindlessly, trying to make his mind forget about it. He hid the pills and then chanted another place, to try and hide the real place that the pills were hidden in. It never worked.

He found the pills in odd places, stuffed inside a bag of apples sometimes, or underneath his computer stand, tangled in the wires and cords. Sometimes he found the knife underneath the mattress, or underneath his stereo system, tucked securely away, but sometimes not enough. He'd sit alone in his house for days and hours and sometimes he thought he heard voices calling him from where the knife and pills hid.

The voice was sly and cunning, radiating through the air, whispers sailing past his ears. He sometimes thought that the voices were the ones telling him to do it, but that was stupid, didn't he know it? That was only in movies. And if it was true, it was the loneliness affecting him. It was the pain and the suffering that made him hear the voices. Nothing to worry about, ever.

He worried about her, worried about her brown eyes and sleek hair, and about the prize, the top, the one with the hair and the eyes and the nose, a nameless face, a face that had stolen her from him, a face whose name only came when he cared for it, a name that taunted him in his sleep, that usually prevented him from sleep for days and nights and hours, that kept him up until his throat burned, until his arms grew rubbery and clumsy, and his eyes grew blurry and he could never keep his head up. He fell into sleep then, and the nameless face came to mock him, with its laughing blue eyes and leering mouth. He would sleep and wake to find the sheets twisted around him, pillows tossed on the floor, his arms hanging off the bed in awkward positions.

He had sleepless nights and sometimes barely made it to work because of it. They asked him questions, questioned how he was, the ones who were truly his friends. They asked him questions, asked him what he was doing to himself, and he answered that his nights were troubled by nameless demons and they laughed at him, clapped his back, and went away chortling.

He could find nothing in himself that proved otherwise, for the demons. He was sleepless, his days were horrors, and the Battle Royal was the time for an end, he decided. He'd quit the next day, or take a leave. See the psychiatrist, chase the pills and knife away from his mind long enough to do so.

He dreamed of her most often, dreamed of her sleek hair and sprightly skin, when he did sleep. His thoughts came confused and stupid and slow, and he wandered the day with others dictating his actions and throwing his clothes. He was in some sort of labyrinth, a labyrinth with spiked walls, and he could never escape.

The day of the Battle Royal, he stayed sleepless and taunt and the demon face laughed at him in the waking hours this time. He pawed at it, tried to remove it, and failed miserably.

He thought of her as the demon face attacked him, thought of her endlessly, and it was all he could to not take the pills. To stay the knife. It was everything. Her face, her flawless, perfect face, mixing with the nameless demon's, mixing, a mix of pain and horror. The demon had become her, turned into her.

The Battle Royal was supposed to be his last battle, the last testament to what he loved and held dear. It was supposed to be the last, drive away a ping of darkness, so that he could fill his blackened hole with some light.

The Battle Royal became the fight that he never knew he could fight.


	2. Broken Lie

Author's Note: I know I said that this story is on hold, and it probably shall remain that way after this chapter. I have posted this chapter in an attempt to lift my inspiration. Though I still do plot this story, I find it very difficult to write. I have about three more "parts" written out, before the story becomes thoroughly muddied. I am posting this to see if knowing that something new is posted will revive my inspiration.

Disclaimer: I do not own Christopher Irvine, Jason Reso, Adam Copeland, Vince McMahon, or any other person you may recognize. They are property of themselves and WWE Entertainment. Chase Hailstone is my character and as such should not be used without expressed permission. I am making no profit from this story and my purpose is for entertainment solely.

Warnings: Ages have been messed with in this chapter, as per usual in my fics, so tread if you dare. There is also some strong language, so be advised.

**Blame It on the Rain**

**Chapter One**

**Broken Lie**

When he repeated the question for the third time and I asked him again to repeat it, I saw the flashers going off in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked carefully, not wanting to offend me, but wanting to know the problem, all the same.

"What do you mean, am I alright? Of course I am," I replied, as conservatively as I could. "My ears are a little whacked, sorry. What did you say?"

Slowly, deliberately, he said, "I asked you when your match is."

Couldn't he go and pry in somebody else's business? "I'm in the Battle Royal," I said, annoyed. "Like everybody else in the damn company."

His eyes narrowed. "Hey, lighten up. Some people don't even get matches." He looked pointedly over at Chase Hailstone, more commonly referred to as Montezuma, who had just finished up his dark match and was looking pretty crestfallen about it. I understood-- he had jobbed to nearly everyone on the program more than once and he still wasn't going anywhere. Which wasn't too horrible, considering the fact he nearly always injured himself on the uptake. But still, the look on the poor kid's face was almost heartbroken. "Why's he here anyway?" my friend Adam Copeland asked, brow furrowing.

"I offered him," I said tersely. "Give him a break."

Adam backed up. "I'm not saying anything. Lay it on easy, Jerky. You're being pretty tense."

"Of course I'm tense!" I shouted, sending Adam back and Hailstone's head snapping around to watch. "I have a match when I asked for this week off! I'm hurt, I'm in pain, and they wouldn't give it to me! They have enough goddamned people to make up twenty people, they didn't need me! And what's more, _Edge, _is that I'm here for a year and I haven't gone anywhere. I chased the title for awhile, okay, and I fought with Shawn, and suddenly I'm back at midcard status! Okay, I took a step back! You're off for a year, may I remind you, and you come back and you're royalty! What the _fuck _is wrong with these people?"

Adam's head bobbed and his eyes widened. "I don't know, Chris," he said, trying to sound soothing, but sounding somewhere between scared and mad. "Okay, it isn't fair, but then why don't you go and talk to Stephanie? I know you like her." His eyes leapt playfully, but I felt something explode in my heart.

I jumped to my feet, blood rushing to my face, feeling my eyes twist and contort in their red sockets. He backed away another foot, holding out a steadying hand, saying, "Chris, what's the matter--"

"She doesn't like me!" I screamed at him, kicking my foot petulantly, like a child. "She doesn't have anything to do with this! She has nothing to do with this! Leave me alone!"

I escaped from the room, leaving him there, mouth agape, Hailstone looking hungrily anticipating, but Adam just staring, not knowing what had happened.

I ran down the hall, knowing that in a few minutes' time there would be a meeting to discuss the Battle Royal. Twenty people in the ring, there was chaos if there was no preparation. But who cared? Who really gave a damn? Cool air slid across my cheeks, but I didn't stop when I reached the parking lot. My feet kept moving, and I kept following, but I didn't feel my shoes smacking the pavement, or my heart beating rapidly, or the fact that I half sobbing as I ran. All I could feel and decipher was the pain I felt smashing against the inside of my heart, clawing at the layer of my chest.

He doesn't know, a voice said softly besides the screaming in my head. He doesn't know what happened. He hasn't been here. He hasn't been here for a year, he doesn't know what's gone on behind the curtain.

_It doesn't matter, it hurts. My God, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I can't stop it, I can't stop it, nothing stops it, I can't stop IT._

Suddenly I became aware of where I was.

Racing down the pavement, barreling along the bleakly lit parking lot for the public, having the people who hadn't made it into the show staring at me strangely, wondering, wondering, was I drunk, was I crazy, was I crazy, was I crazy?

Was I crazy?

I slowed, feeling pain in my chest, my heart banging against my rib cage, beating a violent impression into my bones. I leaned over, sagging, next to the narrow, grainy, bushy strip separating a parking space from another. Sick, sick, I was sick, and I leaned over and vomited into the bushes, gagging, unable to help it, unable to stop it.

My heart thudded painfully and I stood up, gasping, breathing hard. I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my shirt and leaned against the parked car to my back, pain tearing at my head. Trembling, I tried to calm my breathing. I felt feverish and sick, but it had to be only a side effect of what I felt right now. I wasn't sick, I just felt it. Still shaking, I tried to focus my eyes around. I was far from the back entrance of the arena, having pushed through the double doors into our parking lot to the outside. I was shrouded in darkness, the lights from the arena glittering brightly a distance away.

I leaned my head down, vainly attempting to get control of my mind. Why had I run? So Adam had upset me, so everything upset me nowadays. Everything upset me; everything upset me with that damn woman and the damn thing that kept me from sleeping. I gripped my hair. The thing, that damn nameless, faceless thing that haunted me. It couldn't be real, just couldn't be. It was a figment of my imagination, a nightmare that followed me into the day. It couldn't be real.

Still breathing hard, I started to make my way back to the arena. I couldn't blame anything on Adam. It wasn't Adam's fault he didn't know; it was my fault for being so upset and pathetic. I knew things, I knew what I could have and what I couldn't have. It wasn't Adam's fault, it wasn't his fault, and I'd just have to apologize to him. He was probably already discussing it with somebody else, maybe Montezuma, but he'd probably seek out Jay, like he always did. Jay, who on TV I tried to tear apart, was my best friend. He knew me.

He knew my attacks. He knew there was something wrong with me; hell, everyone knew there was something wrong with me. Everyone knew it and nobody said a thing. Well, when Adam brought it up, I'm sure there would be questions, but who knew? No more. No more. Tonight was it. Tonight was definitely it, especially after this. Yes, tonight was it. It.

I stared into the darkness.

THERE!

Fire flashed feet away from me, flames sizzling angrily, and there, hovering, was the face.

I fell back, slamming against the pavement, staring up at the hovering face.

The hair curled around its frame, tendils of orange and yellow glowing fire, framing the sneering, jeering eyes and mouth, laughing at me, laughing like it always did, in all its terror, in everything--

I shut my eyes.

_This is not real, this is not real! You're awake, you know it's not real! You know it can't be real!_

I heard myself start to whimper involuntarily.

_It's real, _said the slithery voice in the back of my head. _You know it's real. You know you're crazy, you know you're insane, you know this will haunt you until the day you die. You know what it wants. You know what it wants._

"I don't," I said, aloud, still cowering on the ground, eyes firmly closed. "It's nothing. I'm not crazy, I'm tired. I'm tired. I haven't slept for days."

I opened my eyes.

The face was gone.

Hardly daring to breathe, I jumped to my feet, clutching my shoulders. No, it was gone, truly gone. Almost falling again in relief, I stumbled a few steps forward. Oh Lord, what was happening to me? I never saw the thing during daylight hours. I never saw it during the daytime. Tonight had been the first time I had been truly frightened. I became upset more than once, but I had never run out, had I? First my tantrum, and now the face, now the hideous, haunting, terrifying face of flame.

_I'm not crazy. I can't be crazy. I need sleep._

The face I saw in my dreams had come into my reality. I needed sleep. I needed sleep, I needed my pills, I needed my knife and my time off. Tonight, tonight was my last night. I could end it tonight; tomorrow I could sleep. Tomorrow I could apologize to Adam and tomorrow I could wonder if I was really going crazy, I could wonder if the voices I heard in my head in the daylight were real voices, or if I was crazy.

Tomorrow I could begin a life without her, a sad, lonely, depressing life that until now had been medicated with my pills and my sleeplessness. I could ponder this tomorrow. I could forget her tonight-- forget her tonight.

Panting, I walked back to the arena, still, in my mind seeing the flashing fire and the laughing, daring face.

And her face, as well.


End file.
